Post-weekend update

Musings on a waterlogged Monday morning:

First things first: The rain has got to stop. This is not the Pacific Northwest, we are not in a temperate rainforest, and there is no reason for the rain to continue as it has for the past couple of weeks.

Yet still it comes down.

I'm starting to see some serious issues as a result of all the precipitation. My skin is starting to prune outside the bath, the humidity is giving me Sideshow Bob-like hair, and our lawn is turning into an urban jungle (a big no-no here in Homewood, but the yard has been too wet to cut when I've had the opportunity to mow it).

Perhaps Mother Nature is trying to make up for the drought of 2007, and do so in a single month. Or maybe Larry Langford teamed up with Kevin Costner to turn the metro area into a "Waterworld" theme park, and he just forgot to tell anybody. Or maybe Al Gore was right, and this is but one consequence of global warming; the rain won't stop, and by the end of the month Montgomery will be a coastal city.

Whatever the reason, the rain needs to stop before I go nuts. I need to ride my bike, I need to cut the grass, and I need to wring myself out before I get all Seattle-depressed and pull a Cobain.
Here are your other bits and pieces from the weekend:

• Friday was good with the posting of the latest episode of Committed. I am eager to get Episode 34 underway and up this week.
• Friday night at the Pork Palace was busy, even with Homewood playing at home (which usually means we are dead). The last hour or so was slow, so I got out early.
• Enjoyed visiting with my sister-in-law Teresa while she was here for the "Aquatic Dreams" show at Dream Mecca Studios. She, our friend Lauren, Jean and I all hung out at the house Friday night after the show. Saturday morning, Teresa, Jean and I took a trip to Pepper Place and the Jones Valley Urban Farm. I didn't know they had chickens on-site!
• Saturday evening brought a rain-delayed Auburn versus West Virginia football game. I listened on the radio, as Jean and I didn't much feel like getting out and we don't have cable. It sounded like an exciting game, for sure, with my Tigers coming out on top 41-30. War Eagle, baby!
• Sunday was lazy, for me at least. Jean worked on her yoga class, and then taught. I picked up around the house and chilled -- until dinnertime, that is. We had a veritable veggie feast, with green beans and fried okra (both organic, local, and fresh from Saturday's market trip), black beans (leftover from Friday night), basmati rice, and a green salad. Thought I was going to pop!

All in all, a great weekend and a good foundation for a new week. Here's what's on tap:

• This is the week for designing the monthly newsletter for the Magic City Blues Society. I'll be working on it a lot.
• Episode 34 of Committed should be up sometime Friday or Saturday.
• I'm also working on a profile of local filmmaker Chance Shirley, which will be up before "Interplanetary" shows on Sunday at the Carver Theatre as part of the Sidewalk fest.
• Saturday will bring a one-day trip to Georgia to visit family. Should be fun!

Headed for the hills -- part IV

It wasn't long until the kabobs were grilled to perfection, with the tilapia flaking off in steaming hunks. The grilled onions, green peppers and squash provided a crunchy accompaniment, and sweet potatoes (cooked scout style, wrapped in foil and shoved deep into the coals to bake) rounded out the meal.

Maybe it was because we were ravenous following the day's drive and the work we did to set up camp, or maybe it was because of the pastoral setting with the river gurgling behind us and the clouds parting to show more stars than I've seen in years, but for whatever the reason, dinner was indescribably delicious.

I leaned back in my chair, took a long pull off my beer, and smiled at Jean. "It really doesn't get better than this, does it?"

It was a shame that it didn't last.

The first hint that the situation was going awry came when we went to make our bed in the tent. We were putting sheets on the air mattress when looked at me with a touch of concern.

"Can you hear that?" she asked, her ear pressed to vinyl near the foot of the mattress.
I moved to where she sat and placed my ear where hers had most recently been. There was no doubt about it -- the hiss that reached my ears could mean nothing else but a leak.

We searched and searched, but could never find the source of the hissing, and despite unplugging and re-plugging the valve for the mattress, as well as using the automatic pump to put some more air into it, the leak remained.

Fortunately, it seemed that the leak was minor. Even after fifteen minutes of futile detective work on our part, it seemed that the leak wasn't so bad that we couldn't sleep on the mattress. We shrugged at each other and continued making the bed, then got in for a good night's sleep.
It turned out to be no such thing.

Sometime in the night, I awoke to find Jean leaning over me, shoving wadded clothing into small piles alongside the outer edge of the tent. I was damp, my back hurt, and it didn't take long for me to figure out what had happened. The rains, which had gratefully stopped while we set up camp and ate dinner, returned after we fell asleep. Unfortunately, the ground cover I put beneath the tent was too small to encompass the entire footprint of our shelter -- and as such, could not keep water from seeping into the tent around the edges.

Jean woke after she put her hand in a large puddle during the night. In an attempt to keep the center of the tent -- and out now-completely-deflated air mattress -- dry, she used our clothes and whatever else was in the tent to create as a makeshift dam. I gave her a hand, and once we were satisfied that we wouldn't be washed into the river as we slept, we snuggled back down and went back to a fitful, restless and uncomfortable sleep.

To be continued...

Headed for the hills -- part III

The rain (which turned to a heavy, intermittent mist by then) and the dark made it difficult to see, especially since I wasn't exactly sure where I was supposed to be going. I knew this much, however: Our destination was just beyond the bridge over the New River -- or so showed the satellite view from Google maps that I checked before we left Birmingham. Sure enough, we found the bridge, and were over it before we knew it.

I peered out the windshield, searching for a sign or some other indication that we actually were where we wanted to be... and then, glory! The headlights caught a neatly-lettered sign off to the left of the road: New River Campground. I slowed, turned in, and pulled down a steep drive to the riverside. The office was closed, but we were fortunate to find a woman -- I assumed she was an employee -- who told us where we to go. We drove slowly down the one-lane road of hard-packed dirt, past a few scattered tents and a couple of large RVs humming in the darkness until we found campsite number 25, the one to which we were assigned. At last, we reached our destination.

I felt we were quite lucky because the rain had pretty much stopped for the moment, but I was still quite eager to get camp established -- there was no telling when the bottom might fall out. We got out of the station wagon and quickly surveyed the site. It was bordered on the front by the camp road and on the rear by some trees and the steep bank of the New River which gurgled happily below. A large oak tree stood at the front of the site. A picnic table, lantern stand, and fire pit completed the scene. We had no immediate neighbors for the night.

We opened the hatch of the station wagon and began pulling out our equipment. Lighting was the first issue to address: Jean grabbed the industrial-size flashlight while I set the two Coleman lanterns to blazing. Next, we both worked on putting up the canopy over the picnic table so we could have at least some shelter should the rains start again. It's a brand-new piece of equipment, so there was a bit of a learning curve involved (directions are not always easy to decipher, especially by lantern light), but after a few minutes we prevailed.

At that point, the knowledge that we had at least a little bit of shelter lessened our sense of urgency enough so that we could actually start the vacation part of the trip -- which, naturally, involved alcohol. We pulled out the cooler and I opened a bottle of chardonnay for Jean before cracking the top of an ice-cold High Life for myself. We clinked our beverages together and then leisurely got back to work.

We knew we wouldn't have a whole lot of time for dinner (what with all the driving and setting up camp, not to mention the threat of more rain), so we prepared accordingly, bringing charcoal and lighter fluid with us on the trip. After a few minutes, I had the coals blazing and I turned my attention to setting up the tent. As I wrestled with shock cords, poles, stakes and the air mattress, Jean was preparing a fantastic dinner. It wasn't long before our tent was up, tilapia kabobs were sizzling on the grill, and Jean and I were able to sit back and relax and enjoy ourselves. In less than half an hour since our arrival, we turned an empty campsite into our home away from home.

To be continued...

Headed for the hills -- part II

As soon as we made the left out of the gas station and onto the highway leading back to the interstate, Jean leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

"Thanks for doing that," she said, leaning in close to my ear.

"Of course," I said, eyes smiling behind my sunglasses. "Why wouldn't I have?"

"We're in a hurry, for one thing," she said, settling back into the passenger seat. "We got a late start today, and it would have been easy just to go ahead and let somebody else bother with it because we needed to be back on the road. And you didn't know that woman. It's simple not to help, and sometimes with good reason."

"Well, sure... but it's the right thing to do. I'll help someone in a spot like that because there might be a time when I need someone to help me. And I've been in that spot."

"I hope it will rub off. We're nice to someone, maybe she'll do something for a stranger... who knows what can happen?"

"Who knows," I said. "Who knows."

The rest of the afternoon's drive went by quickly; our excitement regarding the trip built throughout the day, making time and the miles fly by. We talked, listened to music, heard a bit of Right Ho, Jeeves by Wodehouse on a CD, and even drove in pleasant silence for a time or two. "We're at that point in our relationship where we don't have to be talking all the time," Jean noted, and I agreed; the scenery spoke for itself and required no comment from us.

We stopped for a short picnic lunch at a rest area just south of Chattanooga, then it was into the mountains before we stopped again for a cup of coffee on the northern outskirts of Knoxville. Jean took over the driving duties for a while, until we made a final pit stop just inside the Virginia state line.

It was at this particular rest area where Muda made his appearance. Muda was the third member of our party, and an active traveler. It is probably worth mentioning here that Muda is also a small, magnetized onion-shaped knicknack souvenir from Bermuda which acts as the mascot for Jean's department at work. Whenever someone in the department goes on a trip, Muda often tags along, and members of the department bring back photos of Muda in various exotic locales. Jean figured it would be a hoot if Muda came along with us on our journey, and the great seal of the state of Virginia provided a perfect backdrop for Muda's first photo op.

Before we pulled back onto the highway, we took some time to review the map and directions we pulled from Google. Another two exits and we would be leaving the interstate near Abingdon to follow U.S. 58 through Damascus and on into Independence.

"This doesn't look so bad," I said to Jean. "According to the map, it's 50 miles or so. It's almost six o'clock. If we hurry, we might be able to get camp set and dinner on before nightfall. Let's get moving!"

And we were back on our way. There were some conversion jokes as we got onto the two-lane highway and headed toward the picturesque small town of Damascus, where we found a small path running alongside a river, quaint cabins, and half-a-dozen mountain bike rental shops.

To this point, the road had been fairly straight and well-maintained. Traffic was light, and we had been able to keep up a decent speed of sixty or so since leaving the interstate. But as we made our final turn out of Damascus, our swift driving came to a halt.

First, the rains showed up. It had been threatening rain for the majority of the trip, and it finally came down as twilight began to fall. But of more significant impact was the road itself. We were, without a doubt, in the mountains. Serious mountains. Rural, rural mountains where if you had a wreck it could be hours -- possibly even days -- before someone found you. Cell phone service was a fantasy. And this one main road snaked up, down, and through these mountains wherever and however it could. It was a series of switchbacks, hairpin turns and steep grades that limited driving -- in the rain and dark -- to a maximum of 35 miles per hour if you were lucky.

I would relate this part of the drive to a fellow camper later on during the trip. Upon hearing my tale, said camper smiled, nodded, and said, "yup, you'll see your own taillights driving down that road."

As such, it took us almost two hours to make it through the worst part of the mountains to Independence, and it was well past eight o'clock when we finally arrived, tired but thrilled, at the campsite.

To be continued

Headed for the hills -- part I

The soreness today surprises me. I suppose it shouldn't, yet it does. I've been quite physically active during the past several months, and at age 43 I think I am in the best shape of my life. But after nearly a thousand miles in the car, a full day in a canoe, three nights of camping and an outdoor music festival, some soreness is bound to be expected no matter who you are.

Yet I digress. Nobody wants to read stories of people kvetching and bitching about their various aches and pains. We get enough of that in real life as it is, so I shall get on with the story of the trip.

Ah, the trip, the infamous trip for which I have been longing all summer. Jean and I planned to drive to the highlands of western Virginia and North Carolina for camping and a canoe trip on the New River, followed by the Music on the Mountaintop festival in Boone, NC. I had been dreaming about the trip all summer, and now that it was almost here... well, I suppose you could say I was giddy. And impatient. You see, there are two things you should know about my vacations: One, they are far too infrequent; and two, they are generally far too short. Most of the time, my "vacations" consist of a three- or four-day jaunt to the Gulf Coast or the southern Appalachians. Only once in the past five years have I taken a full week off and gone more than 300 miles away from home, and that was for my honeymoon with Jean. Thus when the departure date for vacation time actually arrives, I'm chomping at the bit to get the hell out of Dodge -- and in desperate need of doing so, to boot.

It was in such a temper that I awoke on Thursday morning. Jean and I stayed up relatively late on Wednesday night, packing equipment and celebrating our impending adventure. Eventually the celebrating outpaced the packing, and we left a number of items left undone. After we finished packing the car, we made a quick trip to the grocery, and then -- finally -- I pulled out of the parking lot at Publix, letting out a whoop as we got onto the interstate.

One of the things we didn't do before we left was to fill the Mazda with gas. There was about a quarter of a tank left as we got onto I-59, so we decided to see how far that would get us. As we neared Fort Payne, the gas light came on and we pulled off the highway for a quick break and a fill up. I manned the pump while Jean went inside to use the restroom; when she returned, I did the same. As I came out of the convenience store, Jean was talking to a short, heavy-set woman who was standing next to a Kia with its hood popped up.

"Do we have any cables?" Jean asked. We did. I opened the back of the station wagon (carefully, so as not to start an avalanche of luggage and camping supplies) and fished around until I pulled out a tangled pair of red and black jumper cables. I hopped back into the car, and after some fancy maneuvering in the parking lot (the car was so full I couldn't see out the rear window at all) I got to where I could reach the batteries of both cars with the cables.

Half a minute later, the cables were in place and the Kia started with -- well, not a roar, because Kias just can't do that -- but with a sound that a well-started Kia makes. It's more of a purr. Or a sustained hiccup. In any case, the little car cranked, greatly pleasing the owner. Many "thank-you's" and "you're-welcome-no-problems" later, Jean and I shut the doors and pulled back onto the road.

To be continued

Mark this day -- and mark it well

It's July 14, which means two things: One, it's Bastille Day (vive la France!); and two, it's the day the first episode of Committed made it's way, kicking and screaming, onto the World Wide Web.

It hardly seems as if a year has gone by. It's been a busy one for sure, filled with ups and downs and related twists and turns. Of course, the year has hardly gone according to plan; schedules have been rearranged, writer's block has shown it's ugly head a time or two (dozen), and the story has evolved with time. But, when one is putting up a first draft of a novel for the entire world to see, plans necessarily must change.

But now we're in the home stretch. There are probably ten to twelve episodes left in to write for the story (and yes, I know Episode 32 is already overdue), then I will collect them all, edit them into a manuscript, and start harassing publishers.

But until then, I'll keep delving into the lives of Tal and Liv Hooper, Toby, and The Collective. There's lots of fun still to come, and I hope you'll join me for it. If you haven't read Committed yet, I encourage you to do so. If you are one of the few and the proud who has, I offer you my sincere thanks. Knowing that someone reads and enjoys my work is what keeps me writing.

So, happy birthday, Committed. It's been one heck of a year.

True customer tales (Part I)

Working as a bartender gives a person a unique view of the human condition. I get to see all kinds of people come through the Pork Palace, from hurried businessmen having a cocktail before a business dinner to families picking up food for a reunion and many more. Some of these customers I have already classified (see "Customers: A Scientific Breakdown"), but others... well, others require their own descriptions. This is one such story.

It was late one Wednesday night at the Pork Palace. It had been a busy night; I was tired and ready to get home. We had been closed for about half an hour, and my manager and I were watching part of a UAB basketball game on TV while I attended to my closing duties. We were engaged in some kind of chitchat when the front door opened and a customer walked in.

He was a heavyset man, bald, probably in his mid-fifties, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and business attire. I recognized him and stifled a groan. I couldn't remember his name, but he was a customer I couldn't forget.

Along with my regular customers and the people who I will never see again, there is a group of customers I like to call "Irregular regulars". These are the folks who come in very occasionally, but enough so that I remember their faces. What often jogs my memory for these customers is some unique quality particular to them: something unique about their job, they left me a huge tip, something like that.

This man, I silently recalled as he started towards the bar, was a pain in the ass. High maintenance, boorish, overbearing, crappy tipper. Iwas glad we were closed and I wouldn't have to deal with him for more than 30 seconds or so.

"Gimme a salad with catfish on it and blue cheese dressing," he demanded as he pulled out a barstool, making it creak as he plopped his girth onto it.

Of course, this is something we don't even have on the menu. I smiled my best tight-lipped server smile at him. This would be enjoyable.

"I am so very sorry, sir," I said politely, with a hint of satisfaction in my voice. "We closed half an hour ago."

"Hmph," he grunted unhappily. "So whatcha got left in the kitchen?"

I glanced through the expo window. Tyree and the rest of the kitchen staff were busy mopping and scrubbing, getting the restaurant ready for the next day's business. All the food had already been put away. I put on the smile again.

"It looks like they've already broken everything down," I said. "Sorry." I turned my attention back to my side work, expecting the man to accept his defeat and head back into the night, or at least to Waffle House.

I was wrong.

"Well, since you're closed, I guess there's no way I can get a drink, huh."

No way you're getting anything from me at this point, you ass, I thought to myself. I shook my head. "No, sorry. I've already closed out my cash drawer, so I can't ring anything up. We closed at nine, you know."

The man sat for a minute, pondering his options, and then looked at the flatscreen TV above the bar. UAB was still hanging in there. The man decided he would hang as well.

"Well, I'll just sit here and watch the rest of the game," he said, and settled back onto the stool, making it creak again.

I don't think there was any way I could mask my surprise -- or disdain -- at this point. I felt like Seth and Amy doing "Weekend Update" on SNL: Really?!?!? You mean to tell me -- after I've told you we are closed, after I tell you we're not serving any food, after I kindly let you know that I can't serve you any drinks -- you're going to sit and watch a basketball game?

I shake my head and get on with my work. Sweeping, mopping, wiping, with him staring stone-faced at the television. After about 15 minutes, I finish everything I can do behind the bar and move around to the front where I start putting the barstools up. I start at the far end of the bar, hoping he'll get the hint. He doesn't, not until I slam the next-to-last stool atop the bar next to him.

"Well, I guess I'll head out," he says nonchalantly. I don't reply. My polite server smile has been replaced with barely-masked hostility. He walks out the door and I shake my head, then put up the last stool. It's still warm from his fat ass.

My manager walks up to the bar. "What was up with that? I can't believe anybody would do that."

"It takes all kinds," I say. "There goes a man who is used to getting whatever he wants. And tonight, he didn't. Pissed him off, too."

I turn off the lights in the beer coolers, clock out, and walk out the door, still amazed at the chutzpah of the man. He may have no social skills or thoughts for others, but I have to admit he's got big brass balls. I'd never have the nerve to do what he did that night, and months later, I'm still amazed by his self-importance and sense of entitlement.

So this is for you, nameless customer whom I will never forget. Check the door when you come into a restaurant. Most of them have their hours posted there. If it's after closing -- or five minutes until -- go home, or go somewhere that's open later. You'll get better service, and you won't have smartass bartenders writing snarky blog posts about you months later.

The best day of my life

I posted a status update on facebook this morning that stated I was "looking forward to the best day of my life."

Some might wonder why I wrote that, especially considering what all is going on in my life these days. Just today, I woke up a tad out of sync with the world, experiencing one of those days where there are lots of little things going on that make you just want to get back into the bed. My sinuses are acting up, giving me a slight headache. My stomach is not happy, likely as a result of the sinus drainage. The weather is blah. My car is immobile at the moment, and I have neither pump nor innertube with which to get my bicycle operating again, so my traveling is limited to whatever is within walking distance. Things are slow at the Pork Palace, so income is always a concern. I've got a to-do list several miles long, not enough hours in the day to do everything I want to get done, and if I stop and think about all my projects at once I'll overwhelm myself and go hide under a rock in the back yard.

So I have reason to be back in bed, sniveling under the covers, killing the day. But I choose not to. Why? A change of perspective. Instead of looking at what's wrong with my life, I recently started looking at what's right. And it helps me get through days like today.

As far as feeling bad physically, I'm taking care of myself -- and starting to feel better. My head is getting back into the game. I have a plan for working on the car; it's taking time, but it won't be long before the old Benz is safely and reliably transporting me all over the place. For now, I really don't need a car during the day. I can walk to work, and I can pick up what I need for my bike when Jean's car is available. As far as finances are concerned, we're working with a monthly budget, I'm picking up extra hours at work when I can, and we'll soon have more money coming in from Jean's yoga teaching and my freelance work. As far as getting everything done, I've finally accepted that it just takes time. It also takes time management, and I get better with that every day. I'm making plans and schedules, and I'm seeing progress in all areas of my life.

Jean and I are discovering a process, which is constantly being refined and updated, with the goal of "All Deluxe, All The Time". It's working, and we can't be happier about it. Life just keeps getting better, and when there is a problem, we're better able to handle it. Not only that, I'm finding the self-discipline to not only work the process, but to trust it as well. When things start looking down -- days like today -- I know that if I keep making baby steps, good things will happen.

My personal process has been ongoing for a number of years now, and it's picked up speed during the past several months. From an eastern philosophical point of view, it could be said that everything I've experienced in my life has brought me to -- and prepared me for -- this moment. And right now, I can't say I can argue.

So, I am looking forward to the best day of my life. That day is today. Because it's the day I have.

An uninvited guest

Most weeknights after I get home from the Pork Palace, sometime around 10 o'clock or maybe even 10:30, you can find Jean and I sitting in comfy chairs on our front porch or the back deck. We like to sit and talk, have a beverage or two, check out the fireflies and enjoy each other's company. We listen to the crickets, chat about whatever happened during the day, and generally just relax and unwind.

It is, in no uncertain terms, a great way to end the day. With our schedules, we don't get to spend a lot of time with each other during the week, so Porch Time is something to which I eagerly look forward.

Such was the case last night. I got home from work, changed out of my uniform, and Jean and I plopped down into out chairs. She sipped on a chardonnay while I nursed a cold Sweetwater 420. The weather was nice, the conversation engrossing. It could not have been more pleasant. Until an uninvited guest popped in.

I picked up my beer from the table on the front porch and popped the bottle in my mouth when I felt an unfamiliar sensation. Lumpy. Slimy. Moving. Three things that the top of your beer bottle should never be.

I quickly popped the beer out of my mouth and found, much to my unbelieving eyes, that a small slug had found its way onto the lip of the bottle -- and into my mouth.

Uck. Serious uck. My stomach did flip-flops and my mind goggled.

I immediately spewed out the beer still in my mouth in a spit-take that would have made the Marx Brothers proud, then stomped around the porch making retching noises for a good 10 minutes or so, while Jean sat in her chair alternately being concerned for my well-being and laughing her butt off.

I was just about to flick the offending gastropod off the bottle when Jean wiped her eyes and looked at me pleadingly. "Oh, don't kill it," she said.

I paused and thought for a moment. In my mind, there was no other being in creation that deserved death more at that point. Not only did the slug invade my personal space, but more tragically, it had ruined three-quarters of a bottle of my favorite beer. I was ready to get salt, sulphuric acid, a blowtorch and some high explosives -- anything to repay the perpetrator in a manner befitting the horrid offense.

But I didn't. With a shrug, I carefully shook the slug off the bottle and into the front garden, where it could continue it's life of slime without interfering with my porch time.

After all, who am I to kill a slug that likes the same beer that I do?

B-I-N-G-O!

I've know for years that gambling, especially sports gambling, was big in Alabama. Now it looks like electronic bingo is giving it a run for the money -- but legally, and without any effective regulation or enforcement.

The Birmingham News published a special report on this rapidly-growing phenomenon on Sunday. News staff writers Kim Chandler, Charles J. Dean and Kent Faulk created a series of articles for the report. They did a great job focusing on the problems the state faces because of the lack of regulation. They described how the industry works, the major players, and how local communities are bring affected by the games. Other articles focused on the rift between Gov. Bob Riley and Attorney General Troy King over how the law regarding gambling should be interpreted, how the gambling industry lobbies politicans in Alabama, and how the Creek tribe in wants to bring actual slot machines and table games to their operations.

So it looks like the state has a choice: Either declare it all illegal and shut it all down (and they can't do it all; the Creeks can do as they wish on their lands for the most part), or regulate and tax the industry. With the current economic climate, it would seem that the choice is clear. Maybe Alabama can tolerate a little sin so it can pay its debts.

Stubbing it out after 25 years

With all the other positive change happening in my life, I've decided to make another: After more than 25 years, I've decided it's time to quit smoking.

The reasons for my decision are many, but the main one is this -- it's just time to do it. I've tried quitting a number of times before (with varying rates of success, but obviously never entirely successful) but I think why it never stuck before is because I was always quitting for someone else, and not for myself.

Now, however, I'm doing it for me because I want to, and not because someone is badgering me into it. I'm doing my research (looking at alternative and holistic cessation methods rather than popping pills) and I have a quit date set of August 4.

With luck, determination, hard work and self-control, perhaps R.J. Reynolds will have one less customer because I decided to quit and not because death took me off their mailing list.

Library provides inspiration

Jean, my youngest daughter and I went somewhere Saturday morning I haven't been in years -- the Homewood Public Library. It's a shame it's taken so long for me to get there, because we came home with some really good stuff. Jean's selections included a couple of yoga titles and some audiobooks to listen to in the car. Juliana picked up a couple of books for tweens which she finished in a single sitting. I picked up the Marvel Zombies 2 trade paperback, a couple of old "Avengers" TV shows on DVD, and a book I should have been reading on an annual basis for years: The Writer's Market.

As I sat up last night thumbing through the tome, I was looking generally for potential publishers for Committed, but I ended up looking through some of the magazine publishers as well. To be honest, I was surprised at how many different magazines there are -- and for so many different audiences!

So now I have a new source of inspiration for my writing. I'll soon be giving the freelance market a whirl. Seems like a great way for me to add to my income, as well as getting some of my work published. I know it won't be easy, and I don't expect to get everything accepted. So bring on the rejection letters!

Creative productivity

It's a busy week on the creative side for me, and I'm digging it.

Work continues apace on Episode 31 of "Committed". It's a good bit, with more Liv and Tal and their daughters, plus a tale of conspiracy regarding that most Birmingham of landmarks, Vulcan. I think it's going to be a good one.

On a more business-related side, this is also the week I do the layout for the Magic City Blues Society newsletter. We did a redesign last month, and I enjoy working on the new product. I am looking forward to getting it finished so I can move on to the million-plus (so it seems) other projects I've got going on.

Back to work!

A testing day ahead

I think today will be a test.

I've never been particularly good at time management, basically because I'm easily distracted. I'll start working on something, get my attention drawn to something else, and before I know it the day has gotten away from me. This particular trait creates a number of problems, the most significant one being that I never seem to get anything done.

I've know for years that I work best when I work with a schedule. A to-do list is good, but I find that I often wander from item to item without completely finishing what I set out to do. However, if I set aside a specific amount of time to do a project, I'll usually get it done. That's all well and good. Unfortunately, another of my traits is an occasional lack of self-discipline, which usually results in two or three days of good scheduling and productivity before I subconsciously decide it's too much work and start to let it slide. Before you can say "Day-Timer", I'm back in a morass of unfinished work and piles of dirty dishes.

When I was single, letting stuff slide wasn't that big of a deal. But now, with so much going on -- not only in my own life, but also in the shared life I live with Jean -- I can't afford to get behind. There is simply too much I want to do!

So I started making some changes. On June 12, I began making a daily schedule based on a weekly one that was broken down into time slots for a number of different items. There's time for general housekeeping, writing, projects and so on. And it's working. The house is looking great, I'm more productive, I feel more creative, progress is creeping along with the Benz, etc. Things couldn't be much better.

But now this week comes along. This is the week I work on the newsletter for the Blues Society, which usually means that I don't sleep much and get pretty aggravated about anything and everything. I'm also striving very hard to get back on the weekly publication schedule for new episodes of Committed, which isn't as easy as it might sound. It's hard to fit in writing time for a 2,500-word piece of fiction every seven days, especially with a full-time job and a number of other projects competing for my time. And, of course, we're continuing to Deluxify the house. It's a fun project, but it is a lot of hard work as well.

So I have a big week in front of me. This morning, I woke up thinking about all that needs to be done, and I started feeling panicky -- and almost overwhelmed. But I'm not going to let it get to me. I've got a schedule, and I'm sticking to it. Nose to the grindstone and all that.

Yeah, I've got a lot to do. But I think I'm figuring out how to get it all done.

Little o' this, little o' that

Oh, so many subjects on which to opine, and such strict self-imposed limits on my writing time. But such is the way I am finding that I have to deal with things. On to the blather!

• City Stages is over. Didn't miss it a bit. Hope it sticks around and brings in some acts next year that I might actually want to see.
• Father's Day was great. Seriously. Jean had a card waiting for me when I awoke, we got some great stuff done at the house, I got to see my eldest daughter's choir tour homecoming concert, there was a great late lunch with family, and finally a relaxed and groovy evening at the house including dancing on the deck to "Aiko Aiko." It was, in short, a dadgum good day. Might well be my best Father's Day ever. Thanks to Jean, Katie, Juliana, Mom, and everyone else who made it possible.
  
• Iran is just a mess, and moreover, it's bad timing. North Korea, too. I think the G20 should, in unison, let these two countries know that they need to cool it for a while because the grownups are busy. There's this whole global economic crisis and significant problems with the earth remaining habitable much longer. You kids act right and we'll deal with you later. Don't make us come in there!
• The process of making the house "Deluxe" continues. There's a whole story behind this, and it doesn't mean spending a ton of money. It's more of a culling process, getting rid of clutter -- not just in the home, but in life. It's way cool, and I look forward to continuing the ongoing deluxification.
• On to someone I consider the antithesis of Deluxe: Richard Scrushy. Good to see last week that justice is one step closer for the man who killed his own dream and the retirement plans of millions of HealthSouth stockholders. If there is any real justice, he will get out of prison a broken man who can only get work cleaning port-a-potties after heavily-attending summer music festivals. Oh, and he has to use his tongue.
  
• Last, and hardly least, work continues apace on Committed. Episode 31 should be posted by Friday. We're about 3/4 of the way through the story, and it's getting exciting. And, I hope, funny. Oh, and I can't forget about it being commercially viable. After the episodes are complete, I'll be editing them into a manuscript for submission to a variety of publishers. Lots to do before I reach that point, though.

It's looking to be a good week. I'll also be working on the July newsletter for the Magic City Blues Society and possible getting some stuff done on the Benz. Busy is good.

Haiku for my 1987 Mercedes

From death of one Benz
Life is granted to one more.
Surgeon or Frankenstein?

City Stages? Don't think so

Top five reasons I won't be attending City Stages this year (in order of ascending distaste):

1. Doobie Brothers
   
2. 38 Special
   
3. Styx
4. REO Speedwagon
5. Lynyrd Skynyrd

To paraphrase the famous line, what we have here is a failure to entertain. These so-called "headliners" could barely comprise a one-day redneck fest at Verizon Wireless Music Center, much less Birmingham's "world class music festival".

Ah, but such is what we are offered. No wonder the event is in such poor shape.

Twenty years ago (has it really been that long?) City Stages was unique. Hell, it was fun. It was great to see so many people enjoying themselves in downtown, and there was always good (and more often than not, new) music to hear. Back in the day, City Stages was an annual event for me. I would take off all day on Friday and Monday and make a big weekend out of it. Some of the best shows I've seen in my life have been at City Stages: Dave Alvin a couple of times, Shelby Lynne, David Byrne... the list goes on and on.

I haven't been in a couple of years. Two years ago, my wedding got in the way (although Jean did e-mail an invitation to Rickie Lee Jones who performed that year), and last year we just didn't have enough interest in going.

This year, however, I don't think I would go even if someone handed me VIP passes for free. You couldn't get me to go see Lynyrd Skynyrd (if you can call it that -- are there even any of the original members of the band still alive?) for... well, I don't think there is anything that could get me to go see that show. Same goes for the rest of the bands listed at the beginning of this article. The acts I would like to see I can see for much less money in a more intimate venue like WorkPlay or Bottletree, and I don't have to jockey for position so I can use a sweaty porta-potty.

So, good luck, City Stages. This year, at least, you'l have to get along without me. Maybe next year -- if you can get back to what you were in the past, and assuming you're still around -- things will be different.

Enough whining already!

When my eldest daughter was but a tot, she had a horrible habit of whining incessantly when things did not go her way (as they so often do when you are four years old). I would tell her "no" for something -- a toy, a snack, whatnot -- and then she would begin. Pleading, whining, sometimes even tears.

My standard response to this behavior was to say, "I can't hear you when you whine," and then I would go about my business until she stopped whining and settled down. Only then would I address whatever it was she wanted.

What brings this to mind is the latest attempt by conservatives in general (and Republicans in particular) to bring some sort of attention their way.

The current (and now hopefully almost over) dust-up over David Letterman telling a joke about Sarah Palin's daughter is the most recent attempt for the right to get some media coverage. Unfortunately for them, it is getting about as much response as my daughter's whines. A scheduled demonstration yesterday brought out approximately 15 people -- fifteen! -- to rail against Letterman and CBS. The demonstrators were outnumbered by media, and were often out-shouted by a few vocal counter-demonstrators.

I can understand their frustration -- even Obama swatting a fly gets coverage these days, and I suppose it seems quite unfair to those on the right. But I believe there is a larger issue that conservatives just don't get -- the public, more and more, understands that there are significant problems to be addressed, that the status quo doesn't work, and we need people who are trying to create solutions.

The right isn't doing that. Conservatives seem only to want to pander to the electorate (such as bringing in Palin as a VP candidate to try to win over Hillary supporters), show token evidence of inclusion (making Michael Steele chairman of the Republican party -- "hey, we've got a black guy too!"), or distract people from the real issues of the day (Letterman and most of the Clinton years).

I think people are tired of it. At least I hope they are.

Back to my daughter: Sometimes, the whining wouldn't stop. Those times I would just mostly ignore her. But on occasion, if she was being particularly bad about it, the whining session would end abruptly with a smack on the butt.

One would think that with the smacking the Republicans got in November that they would stop whining, too.

After what seems like forever, a new episode!

It only took a month (ha!) but I finally posted a new episode of Committed on my site. I'm pretty pleased with this one, especially the back-and-forth between Tal and Toby. I think the bit about the neighbors is pretty good, too.

In any case, stop reading this right now and get over to arkirby.com to read the new episode!

The best laid planssometimes work out okay anyway

What a weekend it was to be. Last week, I got almost caught up with the yardwork. This weekend, Jean and I planned to spend the morning on Saturday sprucing up the outside of our home, trimming, weeding, planting, and all sorts of good stuff. Then we would go to the Blues Society's Junkyard Juke for an afternoon of blues and beer outdoors. We would get up on Sunday and hit the yard again.

Then the rains came. And came. And came some more. The rain on Saturday morning was ridiculous at our house. A small river ran down the side of Oxmoor Road, and we weren't getting out of the house, much less working in the yard -- unless we started some new extreme aquaculture project.

Then Jean came up with the idea of rearranging the house. I sighed. This is a fairly regular project at our house; so much so that we even wrote a line about it in our wedding vows. But, as I swore in those vows, I smiled and got to work without a complaint.

But there was something different about our rearranging this time. It seemed more purposeful somehow. And as we worked, things kept getting better and better.

The rain finally stopped, and we headed out for the Junkyard Juke. We drove around Avondale for a while trying to find it, and finally stopped and got out of the car. There was no Juke to be found. We wandered around for a few minutes, called a friend to check the MCBS website to find the new location (He never called back. I guess Halo is more important. Bastard.), and got back into the car.

We eventually gave up on finding the event and headed back home, with a stop for falafel on the way. We ended up having our own little music festival on the deck the rest of the night.

It rained again Sunday, and we resumed our rearranging. Things fell into place quickly, and by four o'clock, we were finished with our bedroom, a second bedroom, our office alcove, and the living room.

As we sat last night in our bedroom, it was almost like being someplace new. The room had an entirely new atmosphere. And even though we'd purchased nothing -- we simply moved furniture from one room to a different one -- the space engendered a feeling of indulgence. As we said to each other last night, it was DELUXE.

If it's this good now, I'm really interested in seeing how things will be once we get the painting and so forth done.

Long story short, I did nothing I planned to do this weekend. And for once, that was a very good thing.